


Like Beasts In Human Skin

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Bad Dirty Talk, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:12:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose decides to pay his son a visit, and finds a sight he was not quite prepared for.</p><p>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Beasts In Human Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Time to claim some kinkmeme fills! I tend to post anon because I'm chicken.  
> (This is the second Ramsay fic I'm tagging with "Bad Dirty Talk". Whoops, headcanon created.)

Ramsay was sweating profusely, his face a blotchy grimace of lust and violence that gleamed in the firelight, his parted lips glistening wet with spittle and blood. It was no beautiful sight, the sheer filthiness of it so pungent it might have made another man’s eyes water, but Roose felt neither shame nor disgust as he stood there in the half-dark of the doorway. He felt nothing but a curious fascination that kept his gaze fixed on the unlikely couple.  
  
The skeletal thing crouched on the hard ground before him was quite a sight. Clad in rags and covered in all manners of filth and grime, it filled the room with a stench of rot and pus and urine that drowned out his son’s own unsavoury aroma of musk and meat.  
Difficult though it was to tell from shape and attire, the voice that gasped and whimpered in pain as Ramsay rutted against the sorry creature appeared to belong to a young man.  
It was no great surprise, not truly, but noted with distaste nonetheless. Ramsay had always shown lustful, ofttimes predatory interest in any living, breathing thing that could be hurt or tormented, seeking friction, tearing and destroying, twisting and warping and inflicting pain. He did not seem to care what he found between the legs of his victims, so long as it was his to abuse. It was in his blood, and blood he drew when he raked his nails along his plaything’s sides, drawing him closer, forcing himself deeper into his helpless body.  
“ _Please,_ ” the creature croaked feebly, burying maimed hands in greying hair. Ramsay’s broad face twisted into a monstrous grin, trembling and rippling with underlying pleasure as his hips rocked harder, only spurred on by the word.  
A plea so vague and useless might have summoned a smile even to Roose’s thin lips, had not the voice itself caught his attention. A slight frown touched his features as he listened, his pale eyes unfocused for the briefest of moments. Another cry. Another gasp. Another strangled moan as Ramsay clasped down on jutting hipbones. The pathetic sound bounced back from the dark walls, filling every corner of the room. But the _voice_ … There was something almost familiar to it.  
  
“But you asked for it.” Ramsay, oblivious to the many subtleties of torture, drowned the other man’s broken voice in his rumbling growl, another layer of filth to the sickening sounds of their coupling, skin chafing against stone, skin slapping against skin, skin breaking. “Didn’t you, Reek?”  
 _Reek._ Roose’s frown deepened as he watched his son withdraw with a grunt and roll the man onto his back, brittle bones grinding against the floor. Ramsay had always had a strange, unhealthy obsession with his former serving man, and it was all the more despicable to know it had not ended with his death. For this man who was squirming beneath his son’s towering form, despite looking and smelling like someone torn from the grave, was most certainly not Reek.  
Ramsay pushed his legs apart and back against his chest, and leaned in close enough to run his tongue along a collarbone’s sharp, blood-crusted line. The man turned his head away in wordless disgust, looking for an escape where there was none to be found. A flicker of light fell on his tear-streaked face.  
Roose drew in a soft breath of surprise. His face hardened. _Theon Greyjoy._  
Theon Greyjoy, Balon Greyjoy’s last surviving son. Theon Greyjoy, who had taken Winterfell and held it with only fifty men. Theon Greyjoy, crying and writhing with a bastard’s cock between his legs. Roose cut this chain of thought when he found himself guessing at shapes and sizes in the dark. It had been too many weeks since he had last been leeched.

“Didn’t you ask for it?”  
Greyjoy’s body was smothered beneath Ramsay, filth and bone pressing against velvet and embroidery, staining. Merging. Reek and Ramsay had been inseparable. It was only now that Roose began to understand the reason why; another thought he abandoned before it could settle in his brain to fester further.  
  
Now at last the captive began to struggle, kicking his legs and beating his arms against his tormentor when he fumbled between their bodies, eager to guide himself inside once more. It was little more than a bit of sport to Ramsay, who swatted his hands away with playful ease, chuckling quietly as Greyjoy’s attempts became ever more frantic and desperate.  
“No,” he said softly, and louder again when Ramsay found his entrance, “no, no _please,_ my lord, please don’t …” Ramsay only laughed. In the end he took the fight out of him with a single thrust, burying all of his length inside him at once.  
“Didn’t you beg for my cock?” he groaned over the shrieks and gasps as he pinned the slighter man’s wrists to the floor, pressing their flesh together.  
  
Roose remained where he was, perfectly composed. Perfectly still, save his eyes that wandered over the bodies on the ground before him, taking in the filthy mass of muscle and bone that twisted and moaned and moved without rhythm or restraint.  
He had seen blood and dirt aplenty in these past few weeks, grown men wetting themselves and dying in their own filth, men raping and butchering and burning where they went. Men betrayed and stabbed in the heart. There was hardly anything rare or upsetting about the sight of one man using another, and yet … His son had a way of making even the crudest, most mundane of acts _obscene_ in ways that truly revealed the baseness of his nature.  
“I know you want me, Reek.” Ramsay’s lips had found the other man’s throat, licking, sucking and biting in a mess of blood and filth and saliva, greed emanating from every single flick of his tongue, from every tooth sunk into gaunt flesh. Greyjoy’s bony legs tensed and twitched helplessly with the thrusts, each harder than the one before, his face locked in a breathless cry of anguish.  
“I know you need your filthy little hole filled.”  
The captive replied with a shuddering sob, trying once more to turn his face away as Ramsay kissed his cheek, smiling against the bruised skin. Roose could not blame him. His son had a way with words that was quite …  
“Such a tight little cunt.”  
 _… indelicate._  
More words poured from Ramsay’s mouth in between ragged breaths, increasingly filthy and less coherent with each passing moment, making Greyjoy cringe and writhe and plead in exquisite torment. Roose could not help himself but think of Walda and the sounds she made for him in bed, and for a thought and a half he could hardly begrudge his son his questionable entertainment. Then at last it was over, and Roose watched with mildly disgusted detachment as Ramsay spent himself with a guttural groan. Perhaps they were both in dire need of a leeching.

All it took was half a step into the room to alert Ramsay to his presence; wild and mindless though he was, his son possessed certain almost animalistic instincts which, of that there was little doubt, had saved his life more than once.  
Ramsay’s eyes widened for a moment when they found his face, Roose noted with content. The boy had played at lord and master long enough. Theon Greyjoy was a hostage and a prince, not a whore to satisfy his bastard’s vile urges.  
  
It was then that the captive stilled, the breath stuck in his sunken chest. He stared up at Ramsay for a long while, seemingly unable to follow his gaze, as though he knew what was awaiting him. Finally, he lifted his head and their eyes met. There was one short, perfect moment – Roose did not blink, did not want to miss his reward for suffering through this less than pleasant display – when something crumbled within the man, his degradation complete. For all the joy he took in torturing, these subtler aspects of pain and humiliation had always been lost on Ramsay, who even on the best of days was a butcher, not a Bolton.  
It was as though the sighs and the pleas that had been uttered filled the room once more, and the horrid sound of flesh on flesh, and Roose delighted in the way Greyjoy’s eyes went blank when the realisation sank in that they had been heard. A ghost-fingered chill ran down his spine, but it was gone too soon, and the man’s head sank to the ground once more, his features enshrouded by darkness.  
  
Ramsay bent over him, cupping his dirty face in his hand almost gently, fingers and chin fitting perfectly together. They looked at each other for a moment, though no more words were spoken. A tremor seemed to pass through Greyjoy’s body, his hands and toes grasping helplessly at the empty air.  
“Thank you, my lord,” he said finally, his voice so hushed perhaps he hoped Roose might not have heard. But he had. And a slight smile curved the line of his lips at last when Ramsay looked up at him, the torchlight dancing in his bright eyes.  
Perhaps the boy was not quite hopeless after all.


End file.
